


Lethe

by scrapbullet



Series: The Witcher ficlets [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Hopeful Ending, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Implied Relationships, Introspection, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Limbo, M/M, Not Beta Read, Post-Season/Series 01, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24308299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: Jaskier walks, and walks, until his feet can walk no more.What is a god without the belief - the love - of man?
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: The Witcher ficlets [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1626349
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	Lethe

**Author's Note:**

> Something of a writing exercise - and another prompt from my dear Chris (The Witcher: Undead + gateway to the underworld, redemption, or reclaiming.) As always I've sorta deviated from the prompt and come up with something a little odd? But to hell with it - I hope someone out there in the void gets some enjoyment out of my ramblings.

His mouth salivates; putrefaction so thick and sweet in the air that the taste lingers in the back of the throat like molasses. It’s the kind of slaver that often comes before acidic bile - Jaskier’s guts roiling at the sight of corpses in various stages of decay as he picks through the ether with careful steps, lest the dark ichor of blood and gore stain his boots. 

The inevitability of time - death comes to all by hook or by crook - unless of course you’re blessed by magic and alchemy to, ah, _side-step_ that particular nuance of humanity.

Geralt is never so careful where he steps. Or, what he espies for that matter. Sometimes his sight is enough to strip the skin from Jaskier’s bones, and yet the Witcher is still so bloody _blind_.

Yennefer, yes. She, now _she_ is a kindred spirit; but far too knowing. She looks at Jaskier with a gimlet glint in her eye and a quirk to her sultry lips, and even though she is nothing more than a babe to Jaskier - who has existed for centuries in one form or another, always a god of death, _little ‘g’_ , bound by nothing more than the belief of others - she Sees far too much. 

Clever witch. 

If Jaskier weren’t so possessive of Geralt… well-

Jaskier sighs, nudging aside a pitted stone that upon second glance is a weathered skull, the sockets empty and woeful. “Oh, the fun we could have.”

Such fun! If only Geralt would take his head out of his own arse and _think_ , for just one moment, on just how long Jaskier has been travelling with him. Not just years, no, but decades! Decades, and not a single grey hair in Jaskier’s perfect head. 

No liver spots. No crows feet - no matter what Yennefer teased. Only the calluses on his hands from his beloved lute, and a crack in his heart courtesy of an idiotic man too stubborn to see what is in front of him.

A friend. No, not just a friend. Something more. A companion. A lover. Someone to raise little Princess Cirilla with - ah, perhaps with Yennefer also, with her biting and acerbic wit and her sharp mind brimming with such knowledge! Such a delight, that woman, if only she wasn’t such a _bitch_ -

-as if Jaskier isn’t a bastard, as if Geralt isn’t an _ignoramus_.

Coulda, woulda, shoulda.

Instead, Jaskier is stuck. This place of decay, surrounded by a fog so thick that he can barely see a hand in front of his face, is a strange sort of limbo that seemingly has no concept of time. It’s meaningless. A nothingness with no beginning or end.

Only bodies. Stinking, rotting bodies.

And memories.

“If I walk in a straight line, surely I will come to _something_ ,” he says to himself, finding comfort in the sound of his own voice. Such silence is otherwise oppressive. “How many hours has it been? Days? Weeks? Longer?” His foot slides in something wet and foul, bodily hitching forward to save himself from falling. “Ugh. Mortals are _disgusting._ ”

Geralt. _Where is Geralt?_

(Bitter words on a mountain. Vitriol and a broken heart. Bite your lip and try not to cry, suddenly feeling more like a child than you ever were, all for a man. Just a man.

Fancy that, a god falling so in love with a _man_.)

Jaskier walks, and walks, until his feet can walk no more.

What is a god without the belief - the love - of man?

-

Time is an illusion. In one moment, a Witcher embraces a girl in the woods. In another, they meet a witch. They travel - sleep and sup and sing words of wisdom and knowledge, and in time they come across a bard. A bard that, until that juncture, wandered in a fog, until such time that he’s needed.

A kiss, and a conversation - _an apology_ \- and although that quarter be not forgotten, such time has passed in the waking world.

("I dreamed of you," Jaskier says one night in the murky gloom, shoulder to shoulder with a Witcher and lips kiss-chapped. Ciri is curled against Yennefer, small and sweet like a pill bug, the both of them deep in slumber. "At least, I think I did. I'm not entirely sure I was asleep. Am I awake, even now?"

Geralt hums, his hand a heavy weight upon Jaskier's thigh. "What does your heart tell you?")

Belief is a funny thing.

But that’s a story for another time.


End file.
